


Don't Give Up On Me

by Laisidhiel



Category: The OC (TV)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:53:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25506994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laisidhiel/pseuds/Laisidhiel
Summary: Kirsten had another reason for wanting Sandy to come home – but it didn’t matter, because if he wasn’t going to value their marriage for what it was, she certainly was not going to blackmail him into it.
Relationships: Kirsten Cohen/Sandy Cohen, Ryan Atwood/Marissa Cooper, Seth Cohen/Summer Roberts
Kudos: 7





	1. Sooner or Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the rights or characters of The O.C. If I did, things would certainly have gone a little differently.
> 
> This is an AU O.C. fic that begins at S02E14 - The Rainy Day Women - and splits off from there. I won't have terribly long author notes, and they will - primarily - if I can help it, be at the end of the fics. I am going to do my best to keep general character arcs, but this is probably going to be a long one, and things will be edited/changed from the television show or moved and timelines may not be as direct from this "episode" onwards.
> 
> Some lines have been taken from the aforementioned episode and I may well pick and choose throughout subsequent ones if I feel they are relevant to the story arc. I adore this couple but this plot bunny has been niggling in the back of my mind for quite some time and I feel as if it is high time I did something about it.
> 
> Updates will occur regularly, quite probably a few times a week. Please enjoy, and let me know if you have any questions!

She can feel it in the air. The rain, days (or, perhaps, even weeks) away, taut in the air, like a burn on the tip of your tongue. The sinking, solid formation in the pit of her stomach, one that grows steadily, surely, with each passing second. The breeze that sways, a single, sweeping movement, concealing a lie that for a few short moments everything seems normal – bearable, in fact.

Seems.

Of course, it isn’t; no sooner does Kirsten swallow the bundle of nervousness, the insecurity, the unwavering doubts that wrack her body like an unshakeable fever, are they back, ten times as worse, the chills ricocheting like electricity, shooting up and down the length of her spine.

The bed is not really comfortable. It had been, once; there were mornings she had once never wished to leave, particularly with Sandy by her side – even now, twenty years on, the feelings had not changed.

Until Rebecca.

Kirsten swallows, eyes closing slowly; the poison drip of tears closing around spongy eyelashes. Fingers clasp closer to covers and she knows, even from the time, the glaring blink of almost ten am screaming back at her in the early morning sun, that Sandy will be back soon, that he will find her like this and somehow find a way to blame her for it all.

(And just when did this happen, the wall? The impenetrable, bullet-proof guard of their relationship crumbling – doubt, where it had never been before, worming into the very foundations of their life, and pain, shouldering the worst of the bricks of their marriage.)

At the slightest change, the shift of stability in the air, Kirsten coddles the sheets closer; pulls them harsh, flush against her chest, and buries her face into the contours that emerge. Unwashed makeup stains the blue fabric and, this once, she does not care. It is as if her energy, once loud and ever-present, climbs and clings to the walls of her tears.

Empty.

She doesn’t look up as footsteps echo up the steps to their bedroom. Eyes peel open blearily as the weight shifts and a shadow covers the length of her body; they have been together for over twenty years; she knows Sandy.

(Or, she thought she did).

“Are you going to get up?”

His voice isn’t harsh, isn’t accusatory, but something in the softness of his tone riles the hairs on the back of her neck – drags, like sharp nails, and forces the tell-tale pinpricks to dominate the corners of her eyes once more.

“I like it here.” She says, nonetheless surprised at the lack of empathy, the lack of sustenance. He shifts and she moves, watches the shadow of his hand hesitate a fraction of a second against covering her own – but Kirsten saves him the trouble, moves her hand away and closer into the folds of the sheets. The weight is back, the very sight of her husband pushing down like lead, and not only does it spur a new wave of tears she ferociously bites back (she will not cry in front of Sandy – not anymore) but it hastens the air in her lungs, forces it out faster than she can draw it in.

Sandy’s tone is sadder when he speaks – adrift, almost, and Kirsten wants so badly to lose herself in the comfort of his arms but, no sooner does the thought cross her mind and the memories of years of marriage and a life soar back, does she imagine them, and her in his arms, and her in his heart and it crushes. Kirsten bites into her lip and stares blankly as he talks, before she shifts and moves and turns away from her husband with a quip that isn’t meant to be funny at all.

It isn’t meant to be true.

Yet they are like strangers, and they scarcely speak and though it was once down to him she cannot shake the feeling of loneliness in his presence. He spent Valentines with her, not his wife, not Kirsten Cohen – and was that truly the deciding moment, the catalyst that set it all off? Sitting in a dress crying over someone who would rather be with –

Kirsten is about to open her mouth, to say something, to apologize again even though she does not quite know what she is apologizing for – when the phone rings and her eyes close and the tears fall in black smears down her cheeks.

He says Rebecca, and the wound splinters and cracks open.

“Now I’m up.”

Nausea sweeps as she grabs her robe, tossing the covers blindly and walking as she puts it on. Her pace quickens down the steps, far, far out of earshot as she hears Sandy saying stay – and Kirsten wants to ask: who are you talking to, here? But she knows, knows that he doesn’t mean her. It is like both a dagger and a weight on her heart, in her chest, with every breath she takes, and the faster she walks away the harsher it pushes down until it is almost impossible to breathe at all.

The kitchen is empty as she pads barefoot into the room; a shadow clouds over the doorframe, heading out towards the pool house and Kirsten is grateful – a frightening yet not otherwise disregarding feeling, that she does not have to pretend to be okay in front of her children. Autopilot guides her towards the refrigerator, then the cupboard and an empty glass pulled from a higher shelf. Alcohol did not taste good, anymore; it felt like ash in her mouth, had done so ever since the wedding, a cataclysm of events that shook foundations she never even considered.

Cool glass touches scraped, chapped lips and she stops, just as red pools against lines drawn into flesh and she hurriedly flushes it down the sink. The bottle stows away and she swills the glass, swallows back the waves of sickness, leans against the counter with flat palms and closes her eyes, grits her teeth, bites back further tears and not because she doesn’t want to allow herself to feel something other than the agony that replaces the very lifeblood of her existence but – because it is not safe. Reaching out in public did nothing; Sandy saw nothing, so it is better, she thinks, easier, to keep it to herself.

“Morning, Mom.” Kirsten looks up, and there is panic in her eyes and she wonders if her son can see, wonders if he notices the red around her eyes and her lips and the curve of her shoulders moving inwards.

“Hey, sweetie – are you okay?”

Seth moves around the kitchen island and nods, and she realizes that he hasn’t noticed – and unlike Sandy, Kirsten is glad.

“Yeah, I’m fine – can’t stop for long, I have to – uh, go and find my boat.”

She nods, a frown tugging the corners of her eyebrows together. “Find your boat?”

“Find, get – it’s all relative, really, but it’ll be fine. I hope.” Seth moves towards the archway and pauses, one hand against the wall, and he turns back to face her; in that instant Kirsten pushes her shoulders back and stands up, tugging the robe a little tighter around her frame. “Are you okay?”

He has noticed. There is something in the abject terror of Seth’s tone that pricks her eyes further. A smile creases unwilling lips and Kirsten bows her head marginally to one side. “Oh, I’m fine, Seth. A little under the weather. I’ll just spend the day resting.”

Seth hesitates and Kirsten draws in a sharp breath; the air disappears, and the room is suddenly a lot smaller, a lot less like home.

After a few more moments Seth nods, smiles, and leaves, and Kirsten exhales; the air is like arsenic in her lungs and she turns to the now clean glass and fills it with water. Her skin is aflame without the excuse of feeling hot and without the explicit, common sense reasoning of having a fever. One glance at the basket of bagels and crumbs make her stomach catapult like a loose firework and she swallows uncomfortably, downing the rest of the water before another familiar and yet unwelcome voice echoes through the kitchen.

“Honey – I’ve got to –”

“Go.” She interrupts, hands on the counter, breathing unsteady. Eyes course raw as they stare out the window that, though open, shows nothing of the outside. What little energy she pulls from the liquid and from the subpar night’s sleep concentrates on breathing.

In. Out. In. Out.

If she can breathe, she won’t be sick.

“Kirsten…” He is sad, and as his voice trails and her eyes close she wishes more than anything that hurt and humiliation did not dominate the love that once bound them together.

“You don’t need to explain, Sandy. Not anymore.”

Spite rolls off her tongue. As she tries to remember how to breathe without being sick, as he leaves the room with naught but a sigh, she pictures them again, her husband and Rebecca, and she resents, for the very first time, the new life that grows within her that she cannot bare to tell him about.

If he isn’t going to stay with her for her, she isn’t going to blackmail him into it – not even with something that once would have been a highlight in their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always found Kirsten's line in season three to be incredibly powerful and thought-provoking. When she says "if he can't value it for what it is, then what is the point?" I felt my heartache for her, and subsequently thought it would be interesting to move the latter portion of season four's arc of an unexpected pregnancy to this. (Also, big YIKES if you didn't get that from the closing paragraphs!)
> 
> Let me know what you think; I really appreciate feedback of any and all kind and it has certainly been a hot minute since I delved into writing fics.


	2. I Know I Was Wrong

Kirsten has run on autopilot before.

It’s surprising that no-one notices. She exists purely as a superficial beacon to provide solace and warmth and _consistency_ to her family, not one who grieves and displays such a flagrant disregard for normalcy. Not someone who has problems. Not someone who shows weakness. Though surprising, Kirsten basks in the ignorance of her family; Sandy hasn’t called, not since he left this morning, and she swallows the bile from the swell of her stomach against Dramamine, the fizzy, clouded water swirling against the movement of her wrist.

“Is the Sandman not joining you for lunch?” Caleb walks with the air of someone who sees unnecessary breaths to be a chore – for someone who spiraled from a recent heart attack, you would certainly think he would be fuelled by more gratitude than he shows. She is, however, used to her father not regarding Sandy with any semblance of warmth, and is used to the way his eyes hasten to roll and his tone stretches thin, like an elastic band ready to snap, whenever he utters his name.

Yet at the mere mention of it, Kirsten closes up. She passes the painkillers off as nothing more than comfort for a migraine – it’s the weather, she insists, the pools of clouds and rain harsher than iron that fall in clumps from grainy skies. “He’s working.” Words are clipped, even if she tries to be positive, to feign normalcy.

Not telling her father wasn’t the same as not telling Sandy.

“Working?”

“Yes. Working – have you spoken to Lyndsey, at all?” Kirsten expertly cuts through the building admonishment, trailing her own syllables to cover her father’s blatant refusal to believe her own confession. The liquid stains her throat and she coughs, swallowing down further urges to empty her stomach. Perhaps _this_ , in itself, is the karma – the payback for what she did, years ago, months before Berkeley. Perhaps her sadness and grief that couple with the life she nurtures is the consequence of that one single decision. That she should gain a child and lose her husband.

Her eyes flash upwards; Caleb’s are drawn, closed, but his speculating deep stare penetrates the space between them. Kirsten has spent time enough with her father to know when he is keeping something from her – even if she is often late to call it out.

“I don’t think she wants to speak to me.”

Kirsten moves her shoulders and shifts on the couch; the material feels dry, padded too much to be comfortable. “You did make her believe you were adopting her and then proceeded to pull the rug from under her feet.” Her own tone is soft; though she is not here to make accusations to her father, she _understands_ why he did what he did. “Only you know whether you did the right thing. Even if you did, you can still comfort her. Support her. She’s a teenager, Dad.”

“It was Julie’s incessant nagging in my ear.” He rolls the glass in his palm and takes a long swig and Kirsten _stiffens_ ; the smell of alcohol fills the room like poignant steam and she inhales, the scent a sharp knife’s edge against the slick flesh of her throat. “As much as I hate to admit it, she had a valid point.”

Kirsten doesn’t know why she is surprised that _Julie_ had something to do with this, even after the arguments she walked into; it is not as if she _hates_ one of her eldest friends, but there has always been an element of competitiveness – from the redhead’s side, not her own – and the demeanor of someone who takes, absorbs, drags, pulls and pushes until she gets what she wants. Sandy asked her once why she puts up with it, why she keeps on trying, and Kirsten shrugged, apathetic, almost, because she wasn’t entirely sure how to explain it herself.

Now, however, she knows – like most things that fall into her lap far too late to do anything about. Deep down, Julie isn’t any of those things.

“She does, and I’m sure Lyndsey will forgive you. Just give it some time. Show her who you are, that you want her. That you’ll make this up to her.”

“That’s all very well, Kiki.” Caleb pours himself another glass and nurses it, tipping the bottle towards his daughter. Kirsten shakes her head, watches as her father hesitates, as his eyes narrow, then watches as he disregards the refusal as nothing more than a coincidence and continues to thrive on his own concerns. “I’m not sure she will forgive me.”

“I think you’re wrong there. She’s a wonderful girl – even if it takes time, she will understand.”

Caleb scoffs against the rim of his glass and brings the contents to his lips. “Ever the optimist, Kiki.”

She hates the nickname – despises it – yet has never found the heart to tell him to stop with any form of vindication in her own voice. If it comforts him, she swallows the disdain and puts up with it, ignores the label as if it were a playground taunt. Even as she moves and stabs the glistening salad bowl with a wooden fork she pictures that, hears it in the crunch of lettuce, and begrudgingly shoves the rest away.

He notices – of course, he does. Rarely anything gets past him. “Not hungry today?”

What she is also good at, however, is lying – lying to him, lying to her children. Lying to herself. “I’m not feeling my best today, Dad. Might head home in a bit and try and get some more rest.”

He stares again and narrows his eyes and Kirsten wonders if the clogs ever stop turning; if he ever pauses for breath even for a second. The heavyweight in her chest rips through nausea she spent years yearning for, and Kirsten swills the water in her mouth, makes a show of taking several gulps before swallowing, her throat raw. Every bite and breath and taste reminds her of Sandy; it doesn’t matter if she has never viewed herself as _weak_ before; what matters, now, is that she is invisible to him. That their marriage, once conceived as bulletproof, was nothing more than a sham.

The very thought sends her spiraling; Kirsten stares at the scotch in her father’s hands and almost – _almost_ – grasps for it.

“I hope your husband is taking better care of you than my wife is to me.”

He isn’t callous – Caleb is _honest_. It still barely scrapes a mark against her exterior, barely nudges itself to leap to her friend’s defense. “Sandy’s dealing with an important case – but we’re fine, Dad. Really. What matters here is your relationship with Lyndsey.”

There isn’t going to be much in the way of a deterrent, but Kirsten does not _owe_ him that part of her life. He was, after all, the one to keep his relationships and private life a secret from her, all whilst demanding the opposite from his daughter who scarcely made a dent in his familial Richter scale. She is equally as surprised at how easily the lie rolls off her tongue; that she and Sandy are _fine_ , that he is dealing with an _important case_ , that they won’t continue to be _great_.

“I can always speak to Julie later – I was going to stop by the office quickly first.”

The flash in Caleb’s eyes tell her that, not only is the idea obscene, it is also unwelcome. Caleb does not truly wish to savor a marriage based solely on the dependence of income. In a way, with her own troubles meshed poorly to one side, Kirsten feels sorry for her father _and_ for Julie. Certainly, the latter’s motivation was spurred by monetary gain, but she was – is – certain that it had a lot to do with ambition.

Another grip hastens around her throat.

In a swift movement, Kirsten stows the salad away in the plastic container. She brushes down her trousers, fingers coarse against the smooth material, and pushes locks of lank blonde hair away from her face. “I should probably get going.”

“I appreciate you coming by.” Caleb rightens himself in a seat he had allowed himself to fall slack in – and, pertinently, like many aspects and areas of his life, allowed to fall by the wayside in pursuit of other ideals. “It’s not as if Lyndsey is going to be keeping me company anytime soon, and Julie is running ragged with the Newport Group. Goodness knows what will be left of it when I return.”

It _is_ all about Lyndsey – and Kirsten is used to it, even if she should not be _okay_ with it. Used to not being a favorite, though she scarcely cares for such a term – and used to Caleb not loving her as much as he does with Hailey or, now, with Lyndsey, even without printed proof that she is biologically his. A pitiful excuse for vying constantly for her father’s affections and pride, yet she sits through these lunches, dinners, these _meetings_ that often feel far too clinical and concise, in the hope that it will blindly make her a better person.

\--

Before she returns to her office, Kirsten looks at herself in the bathroom mirror. Lines are drawn firmly into pale, sickly skin and she smooths, pushes them down with shaking fingertips. Nausea has subsided, a little, the sickness settling to the pit of her stomach rather than swirling and raging and building like the storm unleashing hefty winds and torrential rain outside. Lips are dry, flecked with sore skin, the contours of her nose and cheeks red. Her eyes move down, and hands find the small swell of her stomach as she pushes against the jumper, deliberately sworn and held fast to cover any evidence.

She is, practically or otherwise, surrounded by people who do not notice her but anticipate her to notice them. Her father sees what he wants when he desires to and deigns to ignore the rest, either out of ignorance or disinterest; Hailey notices what will gain her favor and Julie notices things long enough to pass the buck onto her own grievances. The Newpsies are the only ones who she feels _would_ notice, but only because their eyes are trained to spot a scandal from a mile off. Not that this is a scandal, really, not half as much as the ones _they_ feast upon, but it does lead her to wonder, as she pulls the cardigan down, why she is desperate to keep something so important a secret.

It doesn’t take long for the reminiscence to be broken. Twenty minutes, at most, of sitting back in her chair balancing a pen as she moves, unsteady, rolling against the tide of the wheels, before Julie wonders into the office.

“What are you doing here on a Saturday?” Inquisitive, not unkind. Kirsten sighs before collecting her response.

“Oh, nothing. Just trying to distract myself and failing miserably.”

“Me too. How long do you think this weather will last?” Julie falls into a short step, edging closer to her desk and, yet, Kirsten barely glances upwards.

“They said twenty-four hours.” It is spoken as a heavy sigh, a tremendous effort to breathe and hoist air in her lungs long enough to speak.

“I’m not sure my hair can take much more of it.”

Without thinking, exasperated, and perhaps _lonely_ enough to utter a word of contrived desperation against her own needs, Kirsten speaks up. “I don’t think my marriage can.”

“Oh, gossip,” her friend’s frenzied expression turns to intrigue as she seats herself opposite Kirsten, arms crossing on the tabletop.

“You have no idea.”

“Do you want to break into Caleb’s liqueur cabinet and dish some dirt?”

And there it is – an offer, and Kirsten isn’t aware of just how _badly_ she has needed someone to notice her lately until, of all people, Julie does. Her eyes gloss momentarily until a smile forms and she nods. “I don’t quite feel up to drinking, but please – I’d love to.”

Oh but she _does_ feel up to it. She wants to, desperately, just to remove the edge of hurt, to ebb the frustration and humiliation into something more manageable – or at the very least dissipate it in a haze of inebriation long enough to fall asleep and forget the rest.

Julie’s incessance guides them to the seating area adjacent to her desk – though she disregards the offer to take a drag of the cigar, citing further ill-feelings, she listens and sighs with a swirl of her glass of tonic water at Julie’s recovery. “My life is a pretty big mess, I may even beat you on that one.” The words are like smoke creeping out from a locked door. Slowly, but surely, edging away and leaving a permanent scar on the woodwork, the fire blazes and she pushes forwards at her friend’s encouragement.

“My husband is currently transporting a fugitive… that used to be his ex-girlfriend.” Ex-fiance, she corrects solemnly, but cannot bear to speak the words – cannot bear to think about what they mean, with the two of them in such closed quarters and Kirsten shakily drinking water that bubbles down her throat.

“Well, I’ll see your fugitive former flame and raise you a lesbian daughter.”

“Marissa?” Kirsten asks, only momentarily distracted – and for all her regard at noticing others, it’s certainly not something she envisioned – not with how both Marissa and Ryan seem to be in the habit of coming back together again after falling apart. “Even if it isn’t just a phase, I’m sure she could use her Mom there.”

Julie doesn’t seem to hear Kirsten’s coercive drive to get Julie to _support_ her daughter’s sexuality. Instead, a sigh fills the room, and Kirsten glances over the rim of her glass. “It was a phase for me.”

At that, she balks once more, reminded by the unsettling in her stomach that instinctively makes her move fingers indelicately towards the folds of her cardigan.

“Anyway, I’m sure you and Sandy will sort it out. You always do.”

“I’m not so sure this time.” The words fall flat and fast and they’re out before Kirsten really registers if they are what she truly feels or if it’s resignation at the fact that Sandy has left her for someone else.

That elicits a response Kirsten did not anticipate; Julie launches forwards in her seat, eyes wide. “No – Kirsten, you will. You have to. You two are – like the moral centre of the universe. You’re _Sandy and Kirsten_.”

“Well,” Kirsten pauses, fingers still taut against the fabric. “Now we’re Sandy, Kirsten, and Rebecca.”

Teeth scrape against her lower lip.

“Kirsten – what – can I do anything?”

There is the ghost of a smile that dances in the corners of her lips, dimples that threaten to form then vanish instantaneously. “The only person who could have fixed this is Sandy – and he’s made his decision.” Flashes of Valentines fall back and the grief and pain are not so easy to subside this time. She swallows, the last of the tonic sliding down her throat, and places the glass on the coffee table between them.

“You need some of this to start.” Julie moves to the seat adjacent to Kirsten rather than the opposite, and begins to unscrew the bottle.

“I can’t, Julie.” Words fall as fast as tears climb. Her chest aches and pains shoot through her veins like electricity, sparks worsening, and gathering in clumps bold enough to explode.

“I have never known you to turn down a drink. Not since —” The realization hits Julie the moment Kirsten brings her gaze upwards. A sharp ‘o’ forms with red lips as she falls back into the sofa, the bottle falling into the creases of pillows at her side. “Are you pregnant?”

“About six weeks.”

Julie shoots up. “Six? Kirsten – you didn’t _say_ anything!”

“I only found out last week. Things have been so tense and up in the air, and Sandy and I tried for so long after Seth I just – I accepted it wouldn’t happen.”

“Does Sandy know?”

Kirsten stares at her, dejected, the hole in her heart widening fiercely. “No. And I’m not going to tell him; I don’t want to use this as blackmail, Julie. I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

Silence folds for moments until Julie tells her that, yes, she _has_ to tell him, that she can’t keep it to herself, that – if she _needs anything_ – of course Julie will help, and it all feels _wonderful_ , like music to her ears, until she realizes that the only person she wants to hear it from is her husband.

The only person she _needs_ to hear it from is the one who doesn’t want to be with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mentioned before that some scenes, arcs and dialogues would be moved depending on whether I could or could not feasibly fit them in - so I do hope they work. My idea with Kirsten visiting her father was to further the idea that she is alone in her solitude of grief, and that, of all the people around her, even those presumably closest do not notice her agony. This is also why I included a line in the last chapter about Seth mentioning the boat prior to Ryan giving him the idea.
> 
> Needless to say, it comes from an unexpected place.
> 
> Also, this chapter turned out SO LONG, and I apologize for it - I cannot, however, promise that it won't happen again! The scene between Melinda and Kelly just makes me laugh every time I see it, even if the "moral center" line has me in tears. I like to headcanon that at the table read people were enjoying that, too.


	3. Promise Me

Kirsten draws in a breath as she closes the door.

Sandy isn’t here; perhaps it was foolish to think that he would be, that he was, as he once had been, such a concrete part of her life – that this would mean he was always _there_ , even when he wasn’t.

A sigh rubs the edges of her throat raw; raw from crying tears forbidden to stream in loud bursts of consciousness and raw for denying herself the clarity of a situation gone awry. The home possesses a perpetual ghost, dust innocuously breathing solitude and resentment. It fills her lungs, makes her _tremble_ , and a blank stare guides each footstep.

 _Oh, but if I could have a drink_.

Julie had offered to come back with her, to order something Kirsten does _not_ want to hurl out of the pits of her stomach, to give her some form of company that does not further emphasize the stark outline of her missing husband, but she sees it, sees the shadows that pass as time moves onwards, the dust that settles in empty spaces and his voice, which once traveled, which once _ignited_ in Kirsten a reveling, inescapable slickness, now fills the void with a sharp-edged circumference.

She makes it as far as the pale couches that adorn the entryway before the bile rises; like a wave beating against the tide, Kirsten rushes to the bathroom, footsteps echoing a derelict space, and the tonic, and the small salad squashed into darker corners fall and splatter against ceramic. She holds her stomach tight as if holding it will _hold it in_ , and splays loose fingers against the cold. Swallows, as if swallowing will hold it _in_ , and presses her forehead clean against the ceramic, the edge of the bowl tilting inwards and beckoning her innermost fears to spill outwards.

Sickness wracks her, heavy and suffocating, and tears blot the remains of blurry vision that creeps back with alarming frequency. She holds herself, unsteady on shivering feet, against the bowl, before tugging the handle down and pulling herself upright. Timid fingers push coarse locks of blonde behind her ears and Kirsten leans unsteadily forwards, swilling her mouth out with water from the bathroom sink. There is silence, still, as she turns the tap off, and for a few moments longer, Kirsten closes her eyes and breathes slowly, listening to the sound as she exhales.

Until she reaches her bedroom – _their_ bedroom – Kirsten does not fully realize how tentative her steps were. Cautious, as if waiting for the front door to fling open, as if expecting Sandy to wander in with boxes and bags ready to pack up the last twenty years of his life with her. She swallows the sadness, enveloping herself in the small comfort of an oversized sweater, painstakingly thin against the Californian heat, as her fingers skirt edges of a box she stowed at the top of her wardrobe. With a tug, it comes down, and she holds it fast to her chest as she moves towards the bed, almost cowers on Sandy’s side as she pries the lid off with one rickety movement.

It all feels superficial, the creases of photographs stowed in a box – photos of the mail truck, of bad pizza and even worse wine, pictures of first dates and – seemingly – final heartbreaks, photos of his hair that could never quite sit sensibly on his head, all wispy and wild. As she looks, Kirsten wells up and furiously smothers tears with the back of her hand.

 _Hormones_ , she thinks, bitter, and startled at her own stark aversion. _It is just hormones._

She is clever enough, however, that it is not _just_ hormones, that it is not _simply_ pregnancy sending her body into overdrive, tugging at her ability to hold herself together enough until that, too, snaps. Sandy’s name falls in a bare whisper across bitten, raw lips (and that alone is a habit she never thought to fall back into – the knowing of lips in the middle of the night when nerves persist enough to keep her awake).

If Sandy _has_ , indeed, left her, she needs to forge a new path. Prepare for a different kind of future. Kirsten pulls the lid back into place and moves to push the box to the farthest corners of the cupboard. Nausea shivers inexplicably through every nerve in her body and she swallows bile, chest heavy and pressing as she realizes, again, that it isn’t a matter of _if_ he leaves her – it is a fact that he _has_ , and Kirsten _has_ to be strong enough to deal with it.

Familiar voices filter up through the hallways, and Kirsten is momentarily disheartened; what does she _expect_ , she thinks, fingers circling around a glass, bringing the water to her lips. It is shaky and unsteady, and she hates that her heart lodged firmly in her throat as she heard the front door, and sunk, monstrously, as her boys’ voices trailed upwards. What _did_ she expect? Between her and Rebecca, between twenty years of a life versus a first love, there was, _is_ , no competition.

As _Boyz II Men_ crackles against her ears, Kirsten tugs down her shirt and sweater, finishes the glass of water, and ascends the stairs. It does not take long for her to move up the hall towards Seth’s room, peeking curiously over the threshold. Seth’s dramatics have been ingrained in their life since he was a baby, but there is something deftly curious, desperate, about the volume and the tone particularly given his enthusiasm earlier today.

“Are we hosting a reunion?” She smiles, a soft tug of warm encouragement, as arms fold into one another.

A muffled response pushes out from under the duvet. “Sorry, Mom. I’d turn it down, but fate dictates I am to remain here in the sanctuary of covers for the rest of my days.”

She cannot help but to stifle a laugh. “I’m sure there is time to fix it, whatever it is.” It _is_ a bit strange, offering her son advice she does not take – or has taken, is more accurate, to scold herself for thinking too little of the effort she has made towards their marriage. It is Sandy, the love of her life, who has not. The soundwaves ripple and tear at her resolve as she swallows and pushes her shoulders back, pushes the wave of tears _away_.

“That’s just it. There is no time – I had time, and I used it to run away.” The final words are softer, and Kirsten is transported back to the beginning of summer, to the first bout of isolation felt between herself and Sandy as both Seth and Ryan took off. As she cried and cried until even crying felt like poison, slowly seeping out of her body and into the vestiges of her marriage.

She leans against the corner of the wall, arms folded, fingers instinctively pulling the bare threads down. “Perhaps your big gesture should be to tell her that you are happy for her.”

A sigh fills the air and Kirsten cannot help but to regard her son with a smile. It isn’t one he would see – Seth is far too enamored with his own issues to contend with what others are _doing_ , but she waits, watches, until the words settle and sink in.

“Show her that you are thinking of her, now – not just yourself.”

She sees Seth’s eyes close, fighting against the desire to roll his eyes and instead settling into reluctant content. There is a half-smile paused, the corners of his lips turning, twisting upwards, an almost lightbulb-moment that flickers across placid features. Guilt – and humiliation – rolls off of him, and spills from Kirsten’s own being, her own falsities, and tip-toeing around circumstances that _matter_.

There is a shadow behind her, and Kirsten, once more, radiates hope – before the shadow slowly creeps and forms and Ryan slowly makes his way forwards. She is almost amused at herself, at how easily still she thinks that her husband will _appear_ , that his family matters more.

“Everything alright?” He moves past Kirsten and she relaxes her folded arms, looking warmly between the two boys

“I’ll leave you both to it.” She offers a sincere smile, gently presses fingers against the tip of Ryan’s shoulder, before departing with a nod. Whilst there is no nausea to the steps that carry her down the hallway and to the bottom of the stairs, the moment she left the distraction of Seth’s room the rest of her troubles caught up. Buried, half-heartedly, beneath a veneer of desperation to appear strong and ordinary for her children, Kirsten does not quite realise the haste in her steps that carry her back to _her_ room.

She does not realise the frantic movement, the pulling and tugging of her fingers that wrap covers around her frame, until her body itself gives in to the hurt and tears begin to fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a delay on this one, and I'm sorry for it! Thank you so much for the bookmarks and the responses in general; I am warmed by the attention given to this.
> 
> Unfortunately, this chapter was a small filler for one I have already written. I could have included it together with this (and made it around twelve pages long), but decided to break it down to a shorter chapter now. You'll still get the roughly ten-pages within the next week, ideally sooner if I stop fretting over editing it. It's an emotional one!


	4. I Know It's Late, But Wait

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt bad taking so long for a short little filler, so please have this monster of a chapter. It's the longest one so far!

The phone rings.

Kirsten sits on the edge of her bed. Fingers sink into the fabric either side of her body, toes barely scraping the floor, and she leans forwards, eyes peaking next to a curtain of lank, lifeless hair. Dry lips scrape against teeth that pull them inwards, then sink, ripping at skin until she tastes _copper_ in her mouth.

The phone continues to ring.

As she blinks a single tear breaks away from the corners of her eyes, trailing downwards slowly, tauntingly, tearing open her skin as it does. Not a sound ripples out of her closed throat, none to match the grating of the phone that goes on and on and _on._

The answerphone blinks, and as soon as Sandy’s voice begins to play Kirsten runs from the room.

Seth’s music has stopped; whilst unaware of just how long she has been sat, watching the wall and counting the cracks in the paintwork (just three), she had not heard the boys leave – now, however, though she presses against the wall in the hallway and looks outwards across the living space to the back garden, at the sun that has set and moonlight that blazes through glass panels, she realises that it must have been time enough for them to disperse. That Ryan must have accomplished something Kirsten did not would ordinarily bother her – _she_ is his mother, failure that label has bestowed one way or the other – but now it provides her solace. A small, brief flicker, the beginning of a flame on a damp and desperate campfire in the midst of a lowly wood – and against the ringing of the phone, and the tones of Sandy’s voice, Kirsten forces herself to smile.

“Kiiirsten!”

Pulled out of her fractured train of thought, Kirsten steadies herself, eyes narrowing as she peers around the corner and steadily approaches. The voice is muffled but clear enough decibels break through the sturdy wooden frame and it does not take her a _second_ to figure out just who the voice belongs to as she gets ever closer.

“I know you’re in there!”

Nausea swells, and her stomach churns and even as she leans against the handle and pulls it open she thinks, blindly, _stupidly_ , that it isn’t the voice whose body it belongs.

“Julie, what are you doing here?”

Her friend’s bright red grin stretches an impossible mile across her face; hair almost _immaculate_ , chin raised, a perfect painting of an imperfect woman, yet she strides past Kirsten with an air of righteousness only Julie Cooper-Nichol can possess. Her voice rings out an immiscible force; there have been countless hours, particularly of late and most certainly earlier on this afternoon, where Kirsten had wished she could drown it out – but it was a fact as blatant as any scientific knowledge that one did not simply ignore Julie Cooper-Nichol, particularly when said aforementioned individual had something to say.

“I’ve come to keep you company – and don’t you go throwing me out, I’ve ordered food – something you _can_ eat, thank you very much. I’m not so old that I haven’t entirely forgotten what it’s like to be pregnant.” Julie’s eyes gloss over and Kirsten instinctively folds her arms across her chest – brandishing such an action that does absolutely nothing to hide the small swell of her stomach.

“That’s very kind of you Julie,” she pauses – and it _is_ kind. “But I’m really not hungry.”

She _is_ hungry, but it is not for anything sustainable.

Julie rolls her eyes, somehow managing to keep that _perfect imperfect_ grin perfectly level, yet at the same time absolutely radiate ripples of empathy and warmth. “You don’t have to pretend to me.” She waits until Kirsten begrudgingly closes the front door, hesitates to walk into the kitchen until the click echoes through the entryway, until she turns, her voice substantially lower. “I know I’m not the easiest person to be friends with – and I haven’t always had your back. I’m not going to let you go through this alone, Kiki.”

It isn’t the name that causes the tears – Kirsten _loathes_ it, and it doesn’t matter how little or how often she tells either her Dad or now Julie that she is not a pet to be labelled with a nickname that belongs in a child’s candy store. They still give it. It is not even the fact that Julie, for once, has thought of someone else’s needs, has considered that they just might matter a little more than her own. It is the fact that Julie, for all her _wrongs_ , is doing something _right_ – and not just because it is the right thing to do, but because she clearly wants to.

Tears spill and Kirsten sucks in a sharp breath. She sees Julie’s head incline clearly to the side before her friend crosses the empty space in a matter of seconds and wraps her arms around her. “Come on, Kiki. I hear one of your sons has a spectacular DVD collection. Surely there’s some God-awful rubbish we can watch whilst we eat.” Hands rub her back, and she inhales sharply once more; the air cuts against her windpipe, and as she tries to swallow it pushes out another wave of tears that fall silently into her friend’s shoulder.

A few moments pass before Kirsten eases herself away. Julie plants both hands on Kirsten’s shoulders, lips pressed downwards. “I know you can’t eat sushi, which is really all anyone seems to eat around here. I ordered pizza – seemed like a safe bet, and it’s been a while. Cal doesn’t like that kind of takeout. Ah –” Julie’s hands fall as the doorbell rings. “I ordered before I left. Let me go grab it, and you make yourself comfortable, alright Kiki?”

Kirsten does not have time to respond before Julie vanishes, purse firmly in hand. She blinks unsteadily, a few winks enough until she hears the door open, until she follows Julie’s instructions and settles herself on the sofa. Julie’s intentions are so _wholesome_ , Kirsten doesn’t have the heart to tell her that pizza was not a safe bet in the slightest; pizza was Sandy’s thing, _their_ thing, the food that brought them together, along with bad wine and a disastrous taste in classic cinema. She sinks into the cushions as the remote shakes in her palms, beaded heavily with sweat – and though the memory tears down her defenses as if they were nothing but a wet paper towel, congealing and gathering into a lumpy, solid mass at the pit of her stomach, it also infuriates her. That Sandy has chosen to neglect not only his marriage but his children, his life, but more than that – his memories. Twenty years of a life built from the ground up, and now he was taking those twenty years away, poisoning everything that ever makes her think of him – intoxicating wine, pizza, bad movies, poor haircuts, broken mail trucks. Was it fair of him to take those things and leave her in the ruins of a broken, abandoned city? A desolate wasteland with nothing but torn pictures and ripped paintings and memories that evaporate into dust?

Perhaps Julie was not at all wrong. Perhaps she needs this, needs to try and eat something to make new memories out of it. To consider the life she protects within her body (and, because, of all the damn things that could be appealing, pizza is something she desperately craves).

“Here we are!” Julie’s heels are easily heard before her voice, but it isn’t difficult to beat _that_. Kirsten adjusts herself, fixes her weight so she is not seemingly melding into the fabric of the couch, and takes the boxes from Julie’s outstretched arms. “I’ll go pour us some drinks – what do you fancy?”

“There’s some ginger ale in the refrigerator.” She was about to say: _unless Sandy has drunk it all_ , but stops herself, concludes the sentence with a grateful smile, and pries open the box as it slides onto the coffee table. Julie re-joins her swiftly, placing both filled glasses down either side of the box. “I really don’t know about Seth’s DVD collection.”

“Yes, Marissa has mentioned on a few occasions he is particularly – mindful of it.”

“Possessive seems to be the word you’re looking for.”

Laughing _feels_ good. She isn’t quite sure why she feels guilt for doing so.

“Well, there are lots of – superheroes? Films. One about zombies… I think Marissa mentioned this one to me once. Looks pretty fun?” Julie waves a red box around and Kirsten grimaces at the first mouthful of pizza.

“We’ll go with that one.” Shaun of the Dead. Not truly her film of choice, but perhaps that was something else that was needed – that Julie coming over was not what she would have chosen, but in the short, intrusive (admittedly for the best) time her friend had occupied every available space in the room with her sheer presence, Kirsten had almost felt a swell of comfort at the kindness afforded to her when she so desperately _needed_ but did not wish to _ask_ for it.

She almost forgets – as the film begins and _Julie_ begins to talk endlessly about her plans for the Newport Group – about Sandy, about how he should have been home but wasn’t, about the realization that he was undeniably somewhere with Rebecca, shielding _her_ from hurt; she almost forgets about the rain as it picks up traction, as the speed of the downfall increases monstrously, as it batters against the windows; she almost forgets about the absence of her sons – though she has long since accepted that Seth is growing up and that Ryan _can_ and _will_ take care of him.

She almost forgets the hurt as Julie leaves with another embrace, another promise to _call_ and _see you tomorrow_. Almost forgets her intrusion into Seth’s DVD collection as he and Ryan return home and the movie is long since replaced back on the shelf – that it is so bewildering such luck should befall her, even though the grandeur of the disagreement would be little more than Seth saying that they should have watched _that one first_.

She almost forgets the empty room, even as she climbs into bed, as she wraps the covers around her.

Almost forgets – until she sees the blinking of the answerphone message, and, stupidly, _foolishly_ , reaches out to press play.

“Kirsten, honey – it’s me. I’m so sorry I can’t be there tonight. The road closed up with flooding and it wasn’t safe to travel off road either. You know I would do anything to be back with you tonight. I’m staying in a hotel, but I’m fine. I’m so sorry, my love. I wish you were there so I could hear your voice. I promise I’ll see you tomorrow. I love you.”

She almost forgets who he is with until he says: _I’m staying in a hotel_.

Because he isn’t staying there alone.

When she no longer forgets, even the covers can’t help steady her tears.

* * *

The phone rings long after Kirsten wakes. She has been out of bed once, to throw up what feels like the entirety of the pizza when enough time has passed for it to digest comfortably in her body. Unable to persuade herself to shower, to even dress, she found her way back to bed, though the significant emptiness on the other side weighted more than the press of another body, and she remains stagnant, eyes fixating on the picture, of herself and Sandy with their arms around one another and the _smiles_ not even a storm could break.

As if by sheer will, the phone rings again. The rain is harder outside than it was yesterday, and it almost drowns out the echo, though it is entirely plausible her own deniability in the phone even ringing for Sandy’s return has made her so accustomed that it is nothing more than white noise.

Tentatively, Kirsten reaches out. Her hand is already thick with sweat and she swallows as she answers, pushing the phone against her ear. “Hello.”

“Hey, honey.”

She hesitates, eyes closing as tears openly flow downwards. “… Hi.” She won’t give away her tears. Clearly, Sandy no longer knows who his wife is.

“I tried ringing you last night.”

A few times. One message.

“I know – I uh… I got your message, but I passed out pretty early. It was a long day at the office.” Except she hadn’t _needed_ to work at all, but would he know that? Would he be able to sense her lie?

Sandy answers almost immediately, yet she hears the slight edge to his tone that _feels_ ashamed. Is it possible? Possible he feels shame? “Oh, well – I was hoping that the rain would have stopped by now, and then they said the road had opened up, but –”

“Right,” she responds, a breathless laugh – and it _is_ amusing, and it is _clever_ , isn’t it? “The conveniently washed out road.”

A silence fills the air between them, wedges the distance farther apart, thickens the wall that builds between them both.

“Believe me when I tell you,” it is the first time he seems assertive, not avoiding, not ashamed – the first time in the last few days that he seems anything but determined to keep to his word. “I’m walkin’ home if I have to.”

Kirsten opens her eyes; vision blurs and she blinks away the shaky residue of tears, blinks until the picture of them both steadily forms, like an image slowly rising to the surface of an ocean.

“Just get home,” she pleads, and her voice breaks; there is a crackle in her endurance disguised only through a timely placed swallow. “One way or the other.”

She hears him sigh. More silence. More _nothingness_.

“I’ll see you soon.”

As she hangs up, Kirsten forces herself out of bed once more. There is a heavy clatter from downstairs, a crash and something that sounds horrendously like something _smacking_ against a hard surface. Ordinarily, a team of two, Kirsten and Sandy would almost teleport to the source of the noise – but now she uses it as motivation, to push herself up and to her feet. To shower, to dress, to be _normal_ and put together and not as if she wishes to bury herself in the covers, to throw up even though there is nothing _to_ throw up.

When she eventually makes it downstairs, she finds Seth and Ryan sitting on a sailboat, and she pauses, mid step, and cannot help but to _smile_ – swiftly hiding it behind a stern look of reapproval. “I’m not going to ask why there is a boat in my living room.”

“It’s an objective correlative, mother – I’m getting Summer back.”

“His grand gesture.” Ryan chimes in, though he looks about as out of place as the boat does. Kirsten shakes her head, eyebrows raised – though she _should_ demand they move it, there is untameable gratitude that laces every syllable that falls from her mouth. They are, in every wrong way, making her feel a little more right.

“Ah… right. Well,” she turns more to Ryan – and she realizes, then, perhaps full of shame herself, that her adopted son’s relationship with her sister isn’t as terrible as she first conceived. That she needs to make this right, too, if she is going to go through the pregnancy alone. “Lyndsay called as I got out of the shower. The test results are in; she wants us to go with her.”

Kirsten thinks it is an awkward journey; Ryan offers to drive, and that would have been sensible given how she feels the need to pull over every five seconds and be sick – but that awkwardness pales in comparison to that which awaits them in the waiting room. Lyndsay sits precariously on the edge of her chair, shifting, imbalanced, and Renée looks brazenly into her lap and back at anything that isn’t Caleb or her daughter. The aforementioned business mogul looks accosted to even be here, whilst Kirsten settles herself, smiling warmly and outwardly but undeniably not _inwardly_. Thankfully, as she grasps and swallows slowly, hiding another uncomfortable wave behind a small gulp of water, the focus is elsewhere.

A few further awkward exchanges pass; short sentences follow even shorter glances and Kirsten watches Lyndsay retreat inwards, her eyes welling.

“Lyndsay, no matter what happens here, you will always be a part of this family.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Caleb responds, his first comment that does not seem to depend on what someone else can offer as a topic of conversation.

The Doctor enters not a moment later, and everyone rises to their feet. As the results are read, a wave of relief washes across the room; it’s hard to miss, as Kirsten smiles and Caleb beelines for his proven daughter. Illegitimacy does not seem to factor; she catches the line and holds the door open as they slowly disperse into the hallway.

Ryan gravitates towards Lyndsay, and Kirsten finds herself wrapped in another embrace – this time from her father. “Thank you for having lunch with me yesterday Kiki. I hope you’re feeling a little better. We should celebrate – properly when you do.” A pause, as his eyes drift upwards towards Lyndsay. “We’ll arrange something. Or perhaps I could ask you to?”

Kirsten nods assuredly. “We’ll figure something out, Dad.”

The goodbye is less awkward in the parking lot than it was in the room, and as the door closes to the car Ryan once again offers to drive back.

“It’s alright but thank you. Are you sure you want to come back with me?” They should have had this conversation sooner, she realises, now that they are speaking about it without explicitly stating the elephant in the room. Dancing around an issue as to not permeate the air with anymore awkwardness, that they have had their fill of that already for one day.

“Yeah – I think I’ll let her go back, go and see her a bit later. She said she still had packing to do and I don’t want to overwhelm her.”

“You’re growing up too fast, Ryan.” Kirsten smiles as she starts the car. “It’s a good thing. You’ve come a long way.”

When they return home, a familiar song drifts from upstairs, and Kirsten turns to Ryan with a weathered look on her face.

“I’ll handle it,” Ryan smiles lopsidedly before he takes off, and Kirsten leans back against the closed door.

Kirsten exhales deeply as the footsteps rescued enough that they vanish. She removes her jacket and hangs it up before entering the kitchen, where the phone waits, blinking at her from the holster on the wall.

Another message.

Instead of pressing play immediately, Kirsten brings the phone to her ear and listens as Sandy’s voice filters through the plastic.

“Hey, honey. I’ve just left and I’m on my way home. I’ll see you really soon, I promise. I love you.”

Her eyes close and something swells in her chest. Kirsten replaces the phone back and opens her eyes only to be greeted by a further, thicker blur, which she hastily wipes away with a brush of the back of her hand. Shaky, tentative hands reach for a glass and another bottle of ginger ale – just about the only thing she can safely _keep down_ – and she pours it, watching, as the liquid slowly fills the contents of the glass, the bottle emptying just as fast. He had called an hour ago – perhaps he was almost home? Nearly here? Should she get some food in, some –

_No._

Kirsten swallows her mouthful and straightens her shoulders. She inhales as much air as her lungs will fill before expelling it in a heavy sigh, until every inch of her lungs is empty, until she fills them again, this time steadily, gradually, taking her time. She does not need to provide comfort for him. Sandy has said enough times everything she has wanted to hear and more – so what has happened to make him be this way, now? When she was crying out for him to leave Rebecca alone and he did _not_ , why listen now? Why at this moment, when the Heavens were opening? What did he _do_?

She leans against the kitchen counter, facing out towards the back garden. Rain beats furiously against the window and she wonders, briefly, if the pool will fill up enough to wash them all away. Ryan passes her briefly on his way to the pool house – she _has_ asked him, with Sandy once, if he would like a room in the main house, because she doesn’t want him to feel as if he is a mere accessory to the family – but he insists it’s fine. A look pauses between the two and Kirsten gives a sad smile of acknowledgement.

“I tried. He’s wallowing.” It’s an apology that isn’t needed. Kirsten laughs a little breathlessly.

“He’ll be alright.”

“Yeah, hopefully. I’m going to – well, attempt to hide out for a bit.” Ryan ducks out and the sound of biblical rain briefly fills the kitchen until the door closes, quickly shutting it off. When Kirsten eventually moves, she feels damp lines tracing towards her jawline and wonders whether or not Ryan noticed and, if he did, if he simply chose not to say anything.

* * *

The ringing of the phone wakes Kirsten. Unlike before, where she was already staring at the picture of herself and Sandy, the sound jostles her violently awake. Eyes snap, blurry, and before she reaches for the phone she searches for the time; late evening glares back at her, but with the rain as fierce as it is, how was she to tell?

Fingers grasp the phone and pull it towards her ear. She prepares herself, then, one hand moving instinctively over the swell of her stomach – prepares for him to tell her that something _else_ has gone wrong.

“Kirsten! Oh, I’m so glad you picked up.”

She says nothing, eyes closing, and tugs her lower lip between her teeth.

“I had a small accident – skidded off the road, but I’m fine, and I’m on the bus, and I’ll be there in an hour.”

Fear turns to apprehension – a different _sort_ of terror, that shoots like wildfire through her veins. Fear that something could have happened to him, but instead of that being placed by _relief_ that he is okay, that he has not been harmed, in its place stills nervousness; like water steadily turning to ice.

Sandy _took the bus._ He is _coming home_.

He says he loves her and she stares at the picture as if silence will answer for her. It is _everything_ she has wanted to hear in the past few weeks, all bundled together. It is everything she _needs_ , but all too late.

As she makes it to the hallway, _Boyz II Men_ continues to blare down. Ryan is pulling over another hoodie – if anything, as she smiles at him, Kirsten vows to actually purchase proper weather gear for this single eventuality.

“Do you need a lift?”

She realizes quite suddenly that for the majority of the journey she has been on autopilot. Ryan clearly was unnerved to speak and Kirsten was not fairing much better, and with the rain as torrential as it is, it takes every amount of concentration that is not the merely recycled instinct to keep an eye on the road in front.

_At least I brought an umbrella._

Her mobile rings as she steps out of the car and opens the umbrella; Kirsten glances briefly at the caller ID; Julie, staying true to her word, but she pushes the phone away. The sickness in her stomach and rising fast to her throat has nothing to do with pregnancy; it climbs, like dipping into ice water, from the tips of her toes as she locks the car, creeping up her legs, her fingers that curl around and hold the umbrella steady against her chest, clings to her eyelashes and, for the first time, _stops_ further tears from joining the brief splatters of rain that catch against her skin.

Kirsten’s heart lodges firmly in her throat; suddenly, the open parking lot seems a lot smaller, a lot more _confined_. She braces her shoulders against walls that do not exist, yet she fully _expects_ them to, fully anticipates and feels them closing in around her as breath leaves her lungs faster than she can keep it there. Faster than she can fill them to capacity and exhale, deeply, _properly_.

The rumble of the bus reaches her long before she sees the headlights on the rounding corner. It’s a surprise, too, that falls in slow motion, as she stares upwards and sees her husband peering out the window. Their eyes catch and she has to hold herself, fingers curling in her coat pocket; resists to hold her new life protectively against whatever awaits her.

 _He is alone_.

Sandy coming closer doesn’t make it any better; doesn’t stop the walls from closing or the tingling in her fingertips and the waves and waves of nausea that have absolutely nothing to do with the baby. He stops, a little bleary-eyed but glistening with _warmth_ , and she wants to embrace it – oh she _needs_ it, but she needed it _then_ and he didn’t want to give, so why does he want to now? What has he _done_?

“You took the bus.” Kirsten says, eventually, because no-one else was filling the silence and there wasn’t anything else _to_ say. She was too frightened to ask.

“I told you. Nothing is keeping me from you.” Sandy doesn’t seem _guilty_ in the sense of someone having had an affair – but, as she has realised, quite alarmingly and humiliatingly, she does not know her husband at all. Not anymore.

Kirsten’s breath catches and lodges and tears form and she is – for the very first time – _grateful_ that the rain is as heavy as it is.

(Does he know her enough to see it?)

“Is it over?”

“I promise you – it _never_ started.”

He seems so _sure_. Is he sure? Is it _real_? Sandy begins to close the space between them and Kirsten swallows, the walls still pressing inwards and the weight on her chest crushing. He _hesitates_ , and she doesn’t _move_ , does not _dare_ to shift any closer.

Sandy comes to _her_.

His lips are tentative, soft, drenched with wet from the rain yet _gentle_. His eyes flicker open to hers as he brushes gently, almost _asking_ , asking her permission.

Kirsten crumbles a little, then. She wants to badly to believe him that she willingly ignores the wedge driven firmly between them both. The hand not holding the umbrella securely over their heads reaches around his shoulders as she instigates another kiss, a little fiercer, a little more _desperate_.

The kiss that was meant to solve _everything_ only makes her want to cry even more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said - I'm sorry it took so long to update, so I figured I would throw this one your way now!
> 
> My heart is aching for them in this scene, but please don't worry - I intend and have planned for this to be quite a lengthy fic, and we aren't even out the front door yet. This just closes the end of the episode I am covering and into, more or less, proper AU territory now.
> 
> I'M NOT CRYING, YOU ARE.
> 
> I hope you are all keeping safe and well!


End file.
